


The Wave Ineluctable

by baranduin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Movie!Faramir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wasn't it bad of Faramir to treat Frodo so shabbily?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wave Ineluctable

Faramir stumbles through a thick mist, all his senses dulled, until he hears a soft moan and the fog dissolves to reveal the shattered heart of Osgiliath. Frodo kneels among the fallen masonry with his head bowed, his hands bound securely behind his back. Faramir knows this for he knotted the rope himself—drew the rough cord tight around Frodo’s wrists as he closed his heart to the Halfling’s hoarse pleas to free him.

_It is for his own good. He must not get away. The Ring must go to Gondor … that is our only hope. I will make him understand._

Faramir glances around anxiously, expecting to find some foul-smelling orc bearing down on him. There had been so many of them pouring across Anduin in a seemingly unending stream. Too many to withstand with his small force of men.

But he and Frodo are alone, and the wind howls through the ruined city. 

“Please … let me go.”

The wind pushes at Faramir’s back as he looks unwillingly into Frodo’s eyes and shivers. He tells himself it is only because the wind is so cold and biting; certainly, his shudders have nothing to do with the anguish in Frodo’s eyes.

_So blue … Elvish. Sam’s weren’t._

Faramir stares past Frodo, but Sam’s limp body is gone. Breathing in quick harsh pants, he spins around in horrified disbelief. How could Sam have escaped? Surely he is dead. The blood still dripping from the dagger in his hand tells him so. 

_I had to do it. He left me no other choice when he sprang at me that way … I … I didn’t mean to …_

A deep thrumming starts beneath Faramir’s feet until it breaks into a roar that fills his ears. He whirls about, struggling to keep upright, and gazes south … beholds the golden sands of Ethir Anduin and the darkling Sea beyond. Faramir dashes his hands across his eyes, but it is still there when his vision clears. Many have said he has the sight of his Numenorean ancestors, but this … to see all the long leagues to the Sea. 

_It cannot be._

The Sea is rising fast now, higher, mounting into a tower of black waters that move toward him inexorably, sweeping root and branch and boulder and all living things before it. Soon it will reach him and wash him away as though he were but a boneless doll. Too soon, it will reach Frodo, and all will be lost as it drives the hobbit and that which he carries to Him. 

_No!_

When Faramir tries to lift his feet to go to Frodo to save him from the oncoming wave —or at least give him the shelter of his body—he finds he cannot move. His feet are planted in the ground, immovable and adamant.

_Too late._

A glint of gold catches Faramir’s eyes, but he no longer cares for the wretched bauble that seemed so important only moments ago. Now all he wants is to hold Frodo’s gaze in his and enfold the hobbit with the warmth of his regret and sorrow and understanding. 

_Fool. Your understanding is useless now._

Nevertheless, his lips move, soundlessly for no voice could penetrate the grinding roar of the wave. “Forgive me, Frodo … I did not know … I’m sorry.”

Faramir casts one last despairing look at the trembling hobbit before opening his mouth wide in a scream that is swallowed up as the water breaks over them.

_Frodo …_

* * *

It was so quiet when Faramir jerked awake that the silence seemed to echo in his ears.

“Frodo!”

But the hobbit was not there. There was only Faramir lying in his narrow bed in the Houses of Healing, dragged once more from black nightmare to the even darker night of reality. The soft mattress and pillows yielded to his hands as he sat up and listened. For what?

Did he think he would hear the hobbit’s soft voice again, begging him to do what was right? 

_You acted rightly in the end … you let him go._

Throwing his bedcovers aside, Faramir sat at the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the mattress tightly as he fought back the now-familiar wave of dizziness. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe deeply until the disorientation and nausea brought on by poisoned wound and bitter syrups passed once more. This time, he would not let the healer dose him again. This time, he would find the words to tell the man how his potions did not help, how they only made it all worse.

The stone floor chilled the soles of his feet when he stood and walked unsteadily to the narrow window. Even the few steps that it took to reach the window tired him, and he leaned against the smooth wall to regain his breath and stop his trembling. Oh, his chest ached. That such a little wound could cause him so much pain!

_You earned it._

Faramir shuddered as sweat trickled between his shoulder blades down his back in a cold rivulet. He rubbed his chest, his nightshirt damp under his hands, and stared into the night. A gleam of silver caught his eye, and he started forward, leaning out the window to catch the glimpse of bright starlight that somehow had found its way into his little room. 

_All is not lost … he will find the way._

“No thanks to me,” Faramir muttered, his voice rough and bitter in his ears. “What were you thinking … all you did was delay him … perhaps to the ruin of us all.”

_You only tried to do your duty … to Gondor … to your father._

Faramir laughed, if one could call such a harsh sound laughter. “And I ended doing no good to anyone … to my father … to Frodo.” Faramir’s simulation of laughter ended by choking him, and he slid to the floor as he was wracked by coughing. So overwhelmed was he by the sharp pain in his chest and lack of breath that he did not hear the healer entering his bedchamber.

“My Lord, what are you doing?” The healer clucked a little anxiously as he kneeled next to Faramir and placed a cool hand against his recalcitrant patient’s forehead, now clammy again with returning fever. “You must stay in bed … do you not wish to recover and take up your duties?”

Faramir opened his bleary eyes and stared at the healer. “My … duties …” He shook his head and shrank back as the old man reached for him. “No … don’t … I can’t …” The room lurched and spun as he was hauled unwillingly to his feet. He leaned heavily against the healer’s shoulder while he was half-dragged back to his bed. Collapsing on it, he went limp and let the man arrange his weary limbs and tuck the soft blankets around him. 

_Duties … how can you have duties when all will burn … your father already burned … and Frodo … will he not go up in flame if he reaches …_

“The King will expect to find you up and about when he returns, my Lord … you do not wish to disappoint your liege lord, do you?” Though the healer’s voice was soft, it somehow penetrated the fog of Faramir’s disordered thoughts.

“The King?” Faramir lay back against his pillow, and his heart lifted as the memory of a strong voice and a gentle hand came back to him. 

_There is still hope … yes …hope called me back …_

“How long?” He had coughed so long and hard that his voice was just a hoarse whisper, but the healer heard him and sat on the bed, looking down at Faramir with benevolent eyes. His expression was so kind that tears started in Faramir’s own eyes to be so looked on.

The healer folded his hands on his lap and smiled. “How long … what?” he asked.

Faramir swallowed hard, trying to remember what in Middle-earth he had needed to know so desperately. It came to him in a rush. “How long since the King rode away to … to …” His voice faltered on the word he could not utter.

Nodding, the healer replied, “Three days since the King and the Lords of the West rode east.”

“Any news?”

“No … not yet.”

“But … surely …”

“Sshhh … you will make yourself even more ill if you do not stop this useless conjecture. Come. You need to sleep again … it is late in the night, and you are weary in mind and body.”

Faramir quieted, his body so heavy that he knew he could not even raise one finger if he tried with every last ounce of his depleted strength. When he saw the healer reach for an earthenware flask on the bedside table, something pricked at the back of his mind. There was something he needed to tell him, something important, but it would not come.

The healer unstopped the flask and poured a dark syrup into a spoon, a concoction so thick that it dribbled out in a thin stream. “Here, my Lord,” he murmured and held the spoon to Faramir’s lips. “Swallow this, and then sleep.”

The sickly sweet syrup trickling down his throat brought full remembrance back to Faramir, but it was too late. “No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t help.”

“Sshh … yes, it will … syrup of poppy … it will bring you the sleep you need.”

A bitter tang remained in Faramir’s mouth as he licked his lips and grimaced. “The dreams … they are so terrible … I cannot stop them …”

“I know … I know. Soon they will fade, and you will not remember them. Sleep now.” The healer drew the covers up to Faramir’s chin and patted his shoulder before rising and walking to the door, taking the single lighted candle with him. “I will look in on you in a little while. Rest now. You are safe.”

When the healer shut the door, the room was dark except for the faint starlight that came in through the window. Faramir kept his eyes fixed on the narrow opening, blinking hard every now and then in the strain of staying awake even for a few more minutes.

_Fight it. Do not sleep._

At first, it seemed to him that he was wider awake than he had been for he knew not how long. Truly, he felt very well indeed all of a sudden, his fever and pain vanished. How foolish he was to be lying here in bed when he was surely fully recovered. Why hadn’t he gone with the King when he was an able-bodied man?

_Go now. You can still help … can catch up to them. Or … not to the King but to … to Frodo. He needs you more … you can help him this time … make things right between the two of you … it is not too late._

Murmuring under his breath, Faramir began to take an inventory of all he would need to do before he could set out to find Frodo and help him. “Clothes … my horse … my sword, I wonder where it is … a little food, just a little …” 

With a quick nod of his head, Faramir started to sit up, sure that he would be on his way in a very few minutes. Yes, he would steal from his bedchamber and ride out of the City before that dratted healer could stop him.

_How odd._

He could not move, at least not with any sort of concerted motion, his disobedient arms and legs grown rubbery and weak. 

_Fight it._

But he could not. Though he tried to pull back his blankets and sit up, instead he found himself pressed deeper into the mattress, his head sinking ever more into the soft pillow that seemed to swallow his head. A roaring filled his ears with a dull sound that he recognized. 

_It is coming._

Faramir’s eyelids grew heavy, so heavy that it took all his waning strength to keep them open long enough to gape at the window once more. No starlight remained. How could it when all he could see was the dark foaming water leaping toward him, pulling him down in a spiral of pain and fear.

_Frodo …_


End file.
